


Phoenix

by _Lightning_ (Lightning070)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidents, Amputation, Awesome Pepper Potts, Canon Divergence - Iron Man 1, Canon Divergence - Post-Iron Man 1, Emotional impairment, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Health Issues, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury Recovery, Insecure Tony, Legal Drama, Mental Health Issues, Palladium Poisoning, Physical Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potential Triggers, Prosthesis, Pseudoscience, References to Depression, References to captivity, Rehabilitation, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-07 19:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15914535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning070/pseuds/_Lightning_
Summary: Tony has put his life back together since his captivity in Afghanistan, and tries to redeem himself as Iron Man and as a better man. But his past just won't let go of him. His life gets torn apart once again by a terrible accident, and Tony has to either accept the changes it brought upon him or let them change him for the worst."You've been able to create something good, not only for yourself. Something you believe in."Tony stubbornly kept quiet, and Bruce hesitated."You still believe in it, right?""What does it matter? I– it just went all up in smoke," he dully replied."You've already risen once from your ashes, Tony. [...] Can't you pull that off just one more time?"





	1. Prologue: Let the flames begin

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/414939) by ___MoonLight. 



> This story originally was a collaboration with MoonRay (Italian account-> https://efpfanfic.net/viewuser.php?uid=144766), with whom I've written the first 30ish chapters. After that, we agreed I would continue the story solo, but given the amount of effort we both poured in its writing and planning, it's still a shared intellectual property 'til the very end.
> 
> Phoenix has been written during the course of 6+ years, so some changes in style might be evident, even in its translated version.

 

 

> _I'm not saying that from the ashes of captivity, never has a Phoenix metaphor been more personified!_  
>    
>  [Tony Stark – Iron Man 2]

 

 

 

 

 _"Dark shines_  
_Bringing me down_  
_Making my heart feel sore..."_  
  
[Dark Shines - Muse]

 

 

_"Where am I?"_

Maybe I've just passed out.

It's so dark and I can't glimpse a single spark of light, aside from the vague luminescence coming from my arc reactor. It fades away as well within seconds, fluttering, leaving me to sink in complete darkness. My heart skips a beat and I'm frightened it might stop at any moment now. But it keeps beating on.

I'm about to take a step, when I notice the unexpected lightness of my body: I'm not wearing my armor anymore. I'm naked, vulnerable and helpless.  
I can't wrap my head around what's happened. My mind is spinning, trying to find my bearings, to grasp some familiar, reassuring sight. All I can remember is me fighting on a roof moments ago, wrapped in a half-destroyed armor with Iron Monger definitely willing to kill me.

I find myself stumbling in the thoughts speeding across my head, unable to find any logical explanation. I try looking at my hands, but it'so dark I can hardly see their outline. I've lost perception of my surroundings: it's like I were disembodied. I reckon it be very cold, since I've got the feeling of my breath turning into steam, but I can't tell for sure in this goddamn darkness.

I finally manage to take a few, uncertain steps, fearing to fall into the void I sense below me. My head feels dizzy as I'm not able to tell up from down, left from right...

_“Did I faint?”_

Dizziness almost brings me to my knees and I'm forced to stop. I wish the world – whichever it is – would just stop swirling around me.

 _“Am I dead?”_ is the next question shooting through my brain, so abruptly that it nearly crushes me.

I suddenly hear a loud _click_ , which I instinctively associate to some kind of mechanism I cannot see. A few instants later, a faint glow lights up what I recognize as some kind of wall. I can't see where the light is coming from: there are no lamps, nor luminous orbs, nor neon. It's simply there. After a few seconds I notice, with an uneasiness I can't put my hands on, its dim, bluish hue.

All I can see now is how enormous the place I'm in is: a boundless room, shrouded in black, with a ceiling I can't distinguish – I'm not even sure there's one. It's like I'm in outer space.

Surprise fails me.

 

 *

 

Pepper desperately pushed the button, hearing Tony's call fading into a scream of pain.

A sudden roar shook her bones, startling her as she saw the energy streams gathering into the frail glass shell of the giant arc reactor. They sizzled and sparkled as energy built up, close to unleashing itself.  
She instinctively sought shelter behind some steel crates, just in time to avoid the blast wave giving off only seconds later.

There she stood for endless moments, stunned from the tinkling sound of the shattering glass roof. She pushed her fear away when she realized that Tony was still there on the roof – _alone, wounded, maybe..._

She cut the thought short and leaped on her feet, leaving her hiding. She caught sight of something big and heavy falling from the roof, straight into the device's core. She recognized Stane's armor with a start of panic and froze on the spot, yelling to her legs to move. She dashed for the exit just as Stane's lifeless body sunk into the liquid energy still bubbling into the reactor. She barely noticed Coulson yanking her arm to make her run faster.

She reached the exit, cold air caressing her face as a scorching heat hit her back. Flames roared behind her. She turned to the destroyed building and she immediately went back inside, ignoring fear and Coulson's calls.  
She came in sight of the twisted and charred remains of the reactor's room, then she fastened her pace, alarmed by a metallic clatter, like something just crashed down from... _the roof_.

There was only one other person in there beside her, and a panicked cramp squeezed her stomach.

She finally turned up in front of the reactor, short-breathed. A human figure, wrapped in the twisted remains of a golden-red armor, lay motionless on the floor thick with glass shards.  
For a moment she couldn't even think, or move, or inhale. Then, the breath she withheld came out in a sorrowful cry:

"Tony!"

 

 *

 

I realise what I initially took for a wall is, in fact, a mirror. I stare at my reflection, frowning in ever-growing puzzlement: I should have a cut on my temple and a gash on my right leg, but my skin is untouched, the arc reactor stays where it belongs, even if its light is feeble. Then I see a reddish stain deforming my face, so red it's almost black. I tilt my head to get a better look, but now my face seems perfectly whole and normal.

Maybe it was just a shadow.

Maybe I'm going crazy. Maybe I've already gone crazy.

I tap the reactor's surface with my fingers, in a usual gesture. I'm trying to think, but my mind feels empty and sluggish, clouded by a dark, poisonous fog. I don't get it.

I sense an icy shroud of fear settling on my skin.

 

 *

 

His face was a bloody mask, to the point that he was unrecognizable. His leg was bent in an unnatural angle, a twisted lump of flesh and metal that made her shiver. The arc reactor embedded in his chest flickered irregularly and his arm... _his arm_.

She felt her guts cringe, as she kept calling his name with every last bit of energy she had left, trying to no avail to make him open his eyes.

 

 *

 

I sense an odd tingling in my right arm. I look down to it and my eyes widen in shock: my skin is – what the hell –  _retracting_ , like waves on the water's edge.

I let out a horrified scream, but I'm not in pain. It just feels itchy and awkward. I take a look at the rest of my body and I notice my right leg undergoing the same transfiguration. I cry out again and my breath gets labored, uneven, as I frantically search for a way to stop this abomination.

My left eye feels itchy too and I catch a glimpse of my reflection, only to immediately avert my gaze. At least, I'd like to do so, but it's like I'm mesmerized.  
I can see veins, tendons and ligaments inside my body, in such a detailed way that I can't help but to stare in amazement, even though I my mind wavers on the brink of a fucking panic attack.

The transformation stops and I'm left to look at my flesh-stripped arm. I take in sharp, short breaths, feeling my chest imploding like someone it's cutting it open again.

All of a sudden, a thin silvery film covers the bone, then the remaining arm, which begins to shimmer in the dim light. I flinch and turn around, pulling back to escape from here, but another mirror has appeared behind me, endlessly projecting my reflection. I'm stuck here to watch my goddamn body turn against itself – me – _whatever_ the hell I'm becoming.

  
Other mechanical parts are taking shape in my arm; veins and arteries are of too vivid a red and blue to be natural. The same is happening to my leg and, I suppose, to my left eye, which I _refuse_ to look at, registering it only as a reddish and undefined blotch – _don't look, don't_ fucking _look._

I manage to calm down, even though my breath feels strangled, even though I've _definitely_ gone crazy and my heart is hammering against my ribs and I feel my thoughts about to tear my skull apart.

Have I really become an “iron man”? Will my entire body turn into a metallic android?

I don't feel any pain yet, and this might be what worries me the most.

 

 *

 

Rhodes' words echoed in the distance, inaudible.

Coulson trying to tear her away from Tony's body felt like an unreal presence. She didn't want to move, she didn't want to leave him there.

She broke free of his grasp, unable to talk, and he just let her go, uttering words she couldn't understand, but she had a feeling they were important. But she just clung to Tony's half-melted chest-plate like that could give him strength.

She only caved in and moved away a bit to let the medical team work.

Tony's scream jolted her from her stupor. She turned to him, seeing as he writhed in pain, still screaming in a raw, gut-wrenching voice which soon muted into a painful whimpering. She went to rush to him, but Phil held her firmly and she couldn't do anything but to look as SHIELD's agents were busy transferring him on a chopper.

She couldn't think anymore, so she slowly let herself sag on the floor, suddenly aware of how tired and distressed she felt.  
Phil kept talking to her in a gentle, reassuring voice, but she just blocked his words away and closed her weary eyes.

 

* 

 

Pain bursts into my body as I curl up in agony.

It's too much, worse than the missile exploding in my face, worse than the reactor being implanted in my chest, worse than my parents dying.

Sufferance crushes me and my mouth gapes, unable to scream. I feel my lungs burning for air. My head is imploding and the world becomes a psychedelic conglomerate of flashes; a scorching embrace blazes around me before tossing me into darkness.

I hear the clattering of metal hitting the floor, then, a cry.

Another.

A muffled roar and then a distant muttering...

_"Where am I?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably imagine from this intro, this story won't exactly be a stroll in the park (oh, it definitely won't), but I'm not going to spoiler anything yet. Just bear with Tony for now ;)  
> Important note: as the story develops, there will be some chapters with sensitive topics I avoided to tag due to spoilers. I'll be sure to flag them when they'll turn up.
> 
> Remember: this is a translated story, the original one being in Italian, so feel free to correct any mistake you should find and I'll be sure to fix them asap! :)
> 
> Thanks to anyone who will read, comment or give kudos to this story :)
> 
> -Light-


	2. It could've been worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick recap: the story takes place in a slight AU, since we'd started writing it even before the first Avengers movie came out. We had to strike a balance with what we'd already written and what happened post-Iron Man 2 MCU-wise.  
> So, Tony didn't immediately confront Obadiah after Afghanistan, but rather managed to keep his identity a secret for about six months before discovering his colleague's betrayal, leading to Iron Man 1's final events.  
> In this span of time, he was hired by SHIELD as a consultant, but went on missions with the other Avengers as Iron Man under Fury's nose, thus illegally.  
> These will all be major plot points, so if you have any doubt or curiosity, feel free to ask and I'll be happy to answer :)

**PART ONE: FLAMES**

 

 

> _"But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated."_
> 
> E. Hemingway

 

 

 

 

 _"On this bed I lay, losing everything_  
_I can see my life passing me by_  
_Was it all too much, or just not enough?_  
_Wake me up, I'm living the nightmare..."_  
  
[Time Of Dying – Three Days Grace]

  
  
  
**January 5th 2009, L.A. General Hospital**  
  
_"Where am I?"_  
  
The first thing that came to him was an abrupt, cold wave going through his body. Then the feel, rather a guess than a certainty, to be laying down, maybe in a bed – and in that case, it was a pretty uncomfortable one.  
An acrid smell pinched his throat: only then he realized he could barely breathe and that every breath was a stab in his lungs. An annoying  _beep_  went on in the background, far away...

He snapped his eyes open, not really knowing how or if he really intended to. He was blinded right away by the light, too bright for his sensible retinas; he was forced to blink several times before he could bring his surroundings into focus. He found himself staring at a white, foggy space. It took him some seconds to recognize a ceiling.

His awakening wasn't the best one, as the sensations his body had been keeping at bay while unconscious literally poured down on him: a marked tightness in his chest, a faint itchiness on his right arm and leg, an IV needle in his left hand and a shady area on his left field of view...  
He became aware of a bandaging wrapping his forehead and running under his jaw, preventing him from moving his head and covering his left eye.

He felt dizzy and he struggled to retain consciousness: he had probably been sedated. He felt an oxygen mask pressing on his nose, but he couldn't bring himself to move it.  
He rolled his uncovered eye – even that was a colossal effort – until he glimpsed someone sitting at his bedside. He recognized her in a heartbeat, in deep relief.

 _"Pepper"_ , he tried to to call, but only a hoarse, unintelligible moan escaped his mouth. It was enough to make the woman raise her head. A half-hopeful, half-wary expression glimpsed on her face, like she had seen that scene too many times before.

When she met his eyes she just stared back, speechless. Just as unable to talk as she was, he produced a thin smile, crooked by his broken lip.  
  
"Tony!"  
  
Pepper approached him straight away, reanimated, and he waited for her to start bombarding him with questions about how he felt and about every tiny little ache affecting his body. Instead, she just put a hand on his forehead, with a look of concern on her face. Her eyes darted to the door: maybe she wanted to call in a nurse.

In place of a thousand clever questions he could've asked, he just croaked out a single word, muffled by his mask:  
  
"Water."  
  
As a matter of fact, his throat was arid and his tongue felt like sandpaper: he was sure his vocal cords would snap as he talked.  
  
"You're still on meds: you can't drink yet." she answered with trembling voice.  
  
"Oh. Great. That means awful," he coughed loudly, and he tasted blood in his mouth.  
  
Pepper pulled some locks of hair from his face, still with unreadable eyes, like she was waiting for something terrible about to happen.

This only made him more anxious. Had he really been  _that_  sick?  
  
"Pepper?"  
  
The woman's attempt at a smile resembled a grimace of pain. He decided to play it down like he always did: it would've annoyed her beyond reason, but at least she would've realized he was  _fine –_ just bruised, tired and probably high.  
  
"I must've eaten something heavy for dinner, last night..." he begun with a smirk.  
  
_"Ouch,"_ he complained silently, when a dozen sore muscles tensed with his smile.  
  
"... 'cause I had this totally mental dream where..."  
  
He stopped in perplexity. At first he didn't realize _what_ made him stop, then he figured it out: he tried adjusting the bandage on his eye with his right hand. And he did... but the bandage didn't move, like he'd never touched it.

He tried again, and this time he noticed he couldn't feel the fabric under his fingertips. Pepper just stared at him with watery eyes, like she knew what was going on... but he didn't.

Still puzzled, he looked down at his right arm and a freezing wave ran through his body.

 _Empty_. His arm was gone.

Pepper quietly started to cry.  
  
"Holy–shit."  
  


*

  
  
"Pepper..." he wheezed, trying to get up on his bedding with one arm.  
  
_"No. No._ No. _"_  
  
"Please, don't move!"  
  
Pepper struggled to make him lay back down, ignoring his objections, but he was eager to know what else was waiting for him – 'cause with his ill luck, there was _bound_ to be something else, as if that wasn't enough – his arm, his _fucking arm_.

She covered his eye, but he harshly pushed her hand aside, lifting the blanket supposed to cover his right leg.

 _Empty_. His leg had been cut clean above the knee.

He laid back, clutching the upper stump even though just dabbing at it hurt like hell. His breath was labored; Pepper tried to meet his blank stare.  
  
"What happened?" his voice was detached, like he wasn't even there.  
  
"I'm _not_ here. This can't be happening. It can't be. I'm still in a freaking dream, right?"  
  
"It was Stane's fault, he... did this to you." she tried evading the question and the details she clearly still remembered.  
  
"What happened?" he asked again, this time a little louder, wondering how he was managing to keep so calm – how he wasn't just hollering and cursing and crying. But nothing came to him, just a deep void expanding underneath his reactor.  
  
"I think it'd be better to put this back and..."  
  
"Just tell me what the hell happened!" he finally burst out, still weaker than it should as he made to punch the bed in frustration... a gesture he wouldn't be able to make anymore, and that just sent a jolt of pain through his body.  
  
Pepper was startled by his anger and by his eyes rimmed with tears. He needed an explanation. From her, not from the on-duty doctor.  
  
"Calm down. I didn't spend here the last two weeks just to see you feel sick again." she replied, harsher than she intended to.  
  
"Two weeks!"  
  
"Yes..." she replied faintly.  
  
He glimpsed at his two missing limbs in confusion.  
  
_"It adds up."_  
  
He felt his energy draining off. His eyes were pulled by his wounds, but he didn't want to look. He _mustn't_ look, because that dream felt way too real already, without having to ingrain every single detail in his memory.  
  
_"This is a dream,"_  he desperately repeated to himself, but the stabbing pain was more than real.  
  
A clearer thought emerged from the mass occupying his brain, speaking in Pepper's voice: he had to keep _calm_.

It wouldn't do any good to let the panic creeping in his chest seep out. He clenched his fist, the only he had left, as he breathed deeply. It was just like he woke up again in that cave: scared, freezing and in blinding pain, with wires coming out of his makeshift heart. Back then, he didn't let panic get the better of him, whilst surrounded by armed men who wanted him dead. He had to fight and he managed to find a solution to what should've killed him, despite his desperate situation.

Now he was in a safe hospital with the only person who cared for him in the world – and for whom he cared.   
He could feel her cerulean eyes piercing through him while he clung to her hand, like it could take him away from his swirling thoughts, away from that nightmare – because a feeble, delusional part of him still wanted to just _wake up_.

He looked at his firmly bandaged stumps, and he felt at a loss again. It felt like his limbs were there, still attached to his body. He bent his elbow. He could sense the movement, but there was just air. He did the same with his knee, to no avail. He tried lifting his foot, but the blanket stood there, motionless.  
He shook his head, lowering it like it was filled with lead. His brain refused to process what had happened and it couldn't make the gap between what he felt and what he saw collide. He was sinking in a confused void, like he was floating some feet above the ground, about to crash, but a thin thread kept him dangling here and there. 

He tightened his grasp on that temporarily quietness and on Pepper's hand, who had kept silent until then. He turned to face her and only then he noticed the salty trails on her lightly freckled cheeks. That detail suddenly seemed way more important than his physical conditions. The _one_ time he saw her on the brink of tears had been when he'd come back from Afghanistan. And those, he remembered with a pang in his chest, had been tears of joy, after who knows how many tears of fear and worry and anguish for him.

He couldn't hide the turmoil he felt just watching at her, but he forced himself to keep his desperation at bay, though he could sense it as it pushed to overflow. He couldn't let her worry even more throwing a senseless tantrum – it wouldn't bring his limbs back anyway.  
He just locked to her eyes, fighting to regain control of his body and mind. She just stared back firmly, probably too shaken up to speak, but she silently let him know that he wasn't alone.

He felt one of the many tense knots twisting his guts going loose.  
  
_"Just breathe. You're still able to do_ that _, at least."_  
  
He searched for something to focus on to turn away from pain and what had happened, and he suddenly remembered about his second heart. He immediately reached for his chest, relieved to redirect his thoughts on something familiar:  
  
"What about you? At least you're still here," he said with strained voice.  
  
He pulled the reactor from its support to inspect it, under Pepper's puffed eyes.  
Its bluish hue glowed in his hand, soothing him. He was alive and so was Pepper, his heart was beating and he was still Tony Stark. Nothing had changed. He could pretend to be OK just for a little longer.

Calm. He had to stay _calm_.  
  
"You had it replaced. At least you didn't have to do it yourself, this time," he managed to say, succeeding in ripping a timid smile out of her face at the thought of the first, improvised substitution of the arc reactor.  
  
"Rhodey managed to retrieve one of the prototypes from the workshop."  
  
"What about the old one? It's a gift from you, after all. A  _very_  useful gift," he added, realizing that Pepper had unknowingly saved his life.  
  
If it hadn't been for that old, antique reactor, he would've died of a heart attack, just as soon as one of the shards cut through an artery or sunk into his myocardium. He found himself clenching his remaining fist when he thought about Stane and how he had just left him to agonize in his living room, dooming him to certain death. His thoughts turned stormy again. “Uncle Obie” had stabbed him in the back. Who knows how long he'd been planning to get rid of him, behind all those friendly smiles and fatherly-like behavior... he had fooled him like a child.

He was grateful when Pepper pulled him away from those considerations:  
  
"You told me you weren't a nostalgic type," she said softly, maybe to conceal the trembling in her voice "But I've kept the old reactor, just in case."  
  
He chose to forget about all that horrible situation and just lingered on that smile of hers, now encouraged by his display of bravado. He just squeezed her hand lightly, thankful, but he went serious again when he inevitably stared at his stumps.

His face wrinkled in worry.  
  
"Can I count myself lucky?"  
  
"Believe me: you can."  
  
"I'm not sure that's a good thing," he leaned his head on his sound arm as he started thinking out loud, concealing somehow the tremble in his voice and thoughts:  
"Let's sort this out: I've lost a leg, and an arm too.  _Neato_. I can't remember a single thing about how it– hold on a sec!" he held his breath, narrowing his eye "A blue flash! That much I can recall... but it doesn't ring a bell."  
  
_"Memory: offline. Just what I needed."_  
  
"I don't have the slightest idea how much longer this reactor will hold, given it's a half-assed prototype, and I probably have a dozen internal injuries. On top of that, I'm still thirsty. Medical conclusion: danger list. Personal conclusion: I'm in a dunghill, and I'm tryna be classy here. But, given the circumstances, which I actually have no idea of... yeah, it could've been worse." he let out a small, weary gasp as he fought back another wave of panic.  
  
"You could've become even more of an irritating, egocentric slacker."  
  
"That would've been a _real_ problem," he agreed.  
  
He felt relieved by Pepper's recovery, even though her eyes were still red and she seemed to just hide her concerns while she played along: pretending, while possible, was the best option for the both of them.

Silence fell on them, a much needed one.

Just then, a doctor rushed into the room. He stopped on the doorway so abruptly that coffee almost spilled from the mug he was holding.  
  
"Hello, there," Tony greeted him, with a faint gesture of his only hand.  
  
The doctor hesitated, taken aback by the apparent good spirit of his patient.  
  
"Welcome back among us, Mr. Stark." he put his mug on the nightstand as he approached the bed.  
  
"Well, thank you." Tony reached for the drink, but Pepper quickly snatched it from under his hand.  
  
"This is for me." she thanked the man with a nod and he nodded back before turning to his patient:  
  
"I'm doctor Mitchell. I've been following you during your stay, even if you were not aware of it."  
  
Tony stretched his hand out:  
  
"You know who I am. And pardon the left," he mumbled, as the doctor warily shook it.  
  
"Not at all... let me take a look at you," he said, putting the stethoscope in his ears and glaring at him in suspicion.  
  
"I reckon there's not much more to say..." commented Tony, passively, but he let the doctor do his job.

He seemed displeased when he auscultated his respiration, and his eyes kept darting at the reactor.  
  
"I'm not going to catch on fire spontaneously, Doc," he finally burst out, also irritated for the million aches he was starting to acknowledge.  
  
"You have _no_ idea how many issues that contraption caused during the MRI."  
  
"MRI?! This "contraption" here  _functions_  as a magnet! It's a miracle it didn't blow out–" he was cut short by a moan when the doctor checked his umpteenth contusion.  
  
Meanwhile, Pepper had been staring at them absentmindedly, lost in her thoughts very likely to concern him. She had risked her life too, but she didn't seem wounded, apart from some plasters on her hands.

He couldn't remember about the fight, but saving her... well, that he _did_ remember and it just might have been the best thing he'd done in his entire life. He was so glad to have her there, unscathed and sound, that he felt a lump in his throat just at the thought of _not_ having her there.

He was so glad he didn't fail, for once in his life, no matter the cost. His life would probably be miserable from now on, but he would never regret having literally given up an arm and a leg to protect her. It had been his fault in the first place, after all. And he owed her that much for keeping up with his shit for all those years, instead of leaving him in a pool of alcohol and blood. He owed to her the will of walking out of that cave one year ago.

He could do with a couple limbs less. Without her, not so much. But she was right  _there_.

The panic finally subsided.

 

*

 

Mitchell finally quit that legalized torture and he stood before him with his arms crossed, deadly serious.

"In regard to the arm and leg, there's not much we can do right now, but with the help of a plastic surgeon we could arrange something for your eye."  
  
"My eye?"  
  
"Why yes, your eye."  
  
"My eye, too?"  
  
"Your eye, too," confirmed the doctor, lowering his head.  
  
Tony touched the bandage in resignation, feeling with a start the empty socket under his fingers.  
  
"My eye, too," he sighed, suddenly lightheaded.  
  
"I'm sorry. There was nothing we could do to save it."  
  
"Don't worry 'bout it. That's always been my worst profile," he answered blankly, crushed by that last discovery, but determined not to show it.  
  
Mitchell glanced at him suspiciously, probably fearing that meds had drove him nuts.  
  
"As I was saying... we should be able to remodel the scar caused by the shard, once it's healed."  
  
Tony flinched hearing "scar", but he held back the urge to touch his face. He just nodded stiffly.

A nurse peeped out in the room.  
  
"Doctor Mitchell, they're waiting for you in the ward."  
  
"On my way."  
  
"Hey, hey, wait!" Tony shifted on his bed, much to Pepper's worry "How long before you can discharge me?"  
  
"Mr. Stark, are you so eager to almost die again?"  
  
"I just wanna be outta here. Now."  
  
"You won't be able to leave the hospital for a month, at minimum: you need our equipment."  
  
"Are you kidding me? I  _produce_  your equipment! I can have it installed at my place in a day."  
  
"We'll see. For now, keep quiet and don't stress poor Miss Potts with ludicrous requests. Yes, she _did_ warn me about your attitude," he added, leaving the room before he could protest.  
  
He sank in his pillows: talking had worn him out more than he'd thought. He closed his eyes – well, _eye_. He really just wanted to sleep and pretend nothing had happened, if only for some hours.

He felt Pepper's hand lightly brushing against his own, to check if he was still awake. He sighed, ever more grateful for her to be there. She had been by his side for two weeks; he had noticed the deep, dark circles around her eyes and even though he knew he was the one in the worst shape, he still felt guilty for making her worry so much and putting her in danger before that.

He should've thanked her, but he was so tired...  
  


*

  
A sudden commotion came from the aisle, ripping him from his slumber. Pepper's expression darkened.  
  
"Again." she simply said, clearly annoyed; she turned to Tony and grabbed his bedding "May I?"  
  
"As you wish," he answered, still half-asleep.  
  
He'd just finished talking, that the woman had already covered his wounds with the sheets and then topped them with the blanket.  
  
"Don't move and don't let anyone see you. Just be quiet."  
  
He stared at her in confusion, unable to understand but slightly more alert. 

That's when Mitchell's furious voice came from outside:  
  
"This is not a reality-show! Get out! I said  _go away!"_  
  
Steps shuffled in the hallway, then the door burst open, spewing a crowd of cameras and journalists who quickly occupied the room.  
  
"He's awake!" someone shrilled, much to his ears' discontent.  
  
He was then assailed by a never-ending row of questions, which kindled his bad – terrible, actually – mood once again and made him understand why Pepper was so worried about covering his maimed body.

He was careful not to move the layer of fabric concealing him and he bent his sound leg, so that the absence of the other wouldn't be so obvious. He'd never mind being in the spotlight even in much more improper circumstances, but right now he wished he had his armor back on to crush into smithereens every camera in a ten-feet radius. Along with the reporters.  
  
"How are you feeling, Mr. Stark?"  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Are you in pain?"  
  
"Are you really the "iron man"?"  
  
"When will you resume your position at Stark Industries?"  
  
"What happened to Stane?"  
  
Pepper was trying to get rid of them, deflecting the questions aimed at her, but a dozen journalists were too much even for her. Mitchell was busy chattering with a security guard, who wasn't apparently willing to do anything to drive them away.

Questions... questions... _more_ questions. His head was throbbing. The hell with them: he himself had no fucking idea why he was laying on a goddamn hospital bed with half his body _gone_.

He closed his eyes, ignored the world, and counted to te– to _five_ , then he went off:  
  
"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"  
  
Everyone shut up for a moment and he felt lightheaded. His lungs complained meekly.

Silence.  
  
"You're on air." a journalist dared to say.  
  
"Are hospitalized people _so_ entertaining?"  
  
"But..."  
  
"Mr. Stark..."  
  
"Get _lost."_  
  
His pitch turned so blunt and icy that the room fell silent again. He was about to add something, but a blue flash exploded in his head and the reactor, still concealed, produced a hissing sound and began to flicker. He let out a groan of pain and collapsed on the pillows again.

Pepper went full berserk. He could never recall what she exactly said, but it  _definitely_ shouldn't have been sent on air.

He heard a jumble of cries, protests and some isolated question that fell on deaf ears. A male voice spoke to Pepper for a few seconds. It didn't sound like Mitchell's, but it seemed familiar nonetheless. His ears were ringing and he could only hear an indistinct mumble; he felt a needle sinking in his arm and his muscles relaxed soon after. He began to drift in a light slumber, lulled by the background chatter that went on an on and on.

He stopped trying to catch the words and focused on Pepper's soft voice.

Then all went quiet again. Pain kept clouding his mind, springing from his wounds. 

He managed to open his eye and raised his glance on Pepper: her face was still flustered with anger. In that moment he felt to admire her beyond everything.

He heaved a sigh, thinking about another week on that uncomfortable bed, with an IV sunk in his arm and hordes of journalists to keep at bay...  
  
"Let's go home," he managed to mutter.   
  
Then the world faded around him and he fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are and here Tony's journey truly begins. I'd like to say the worst is over... but that would be a tad hypocritical, given I know what's yet to come :P  
> I hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> Remember: this is a translated story, the original one being in Italian, so feel free to correct any mistake you should find and I'll be sure to fix them asap!
> 
> Thanks to anyone who will read, comment or give kudos to this story :)
> 
> -Light-


	3. In Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony seriously questions his sound mind (as if his body wasn't already enough of a problem).

_"I don't know what to take,_  
_Thought I was focused but I'm scared._  
_I'm not prepared._  
_I hyperventilate, looking for help somehow somewhere,_  
_But no one cares._  
_I'm my own worst enemy."_

[Given Up – © Linkin Park]

 

 

**February 15th, Stark Mansion**

  
He woke up to the distant murmur of ocean waves washing on the shore. He didn't open his eyes yet, lulled by that familiar sound. He could sense the dimness of his room around him and a faint blade of light made its way through the wide electronic window, gently warming his face. It must have been dawning. He cracked his eyes open, still sleepy and with no intention of getting up any time soon. That nightmare had him drained and he felt reassured to finally wake up at home like every morning instead of in a hospital bed.

 _"My arm?"_ It was there. He could feel it. " _My leg?"_ It was there too. He sighed: they were there. All had gone back to normal. " _And my eye?"_ His left side was still in darkness. _“I'm bandaged: of course I can't see,"_ he promptly reassured himself. It was just a painful cut, but he was still able to see just fine. He sat up a bit stiffly, head high, turning then to the window. He made to get up on the left side of the bed – why left? He always got up right... _“No. Today it'll be left,”_ he told himself, not all that convincing even to his own ears.

He gingerly put his foot on the floor and got up with no effort. He took a step... but his second foot failed him and he collapsed to the ground like a dead weight. He stretched out his hands – his _hand_ – but he couldn't avoid his head bumping on the wounded side, and it was like a firecracker exploded in his brain. He let out a muffled moan when he felt his body aching as it were on fire and the stumps violently throbbing due to the fall.

JARVIS' electronic voice filled the room, unpleasantly shrill. “Sir, you're still too weak to...”

“Mute!” he hissed through his teeth, clenching his fist until it went numb to suppress a scream of pain. He could feel every muscle stretched to its limit, just about to be torn apart. He heard his jaw creak for the pressure. He rested his forehead on the wooden tiles with tears clouding his vision, unable to move. He just lay on the floor with his body strained and his eyes tightly shut for what seemed like an eternity, until the pain started to wane. It didn't fade away completely: its grip still tormented his wounds, but it became bearable just enough to let him grasp a lucid thought beside the wish to black out: now he had to get up.

He almost passed out at the very idea and he remained face down just a little longer before he dared to lift a finger. Maybe he should've called for help. He surely wasn't alone; there had to be some nurse to take care of him. He found himself clenching his fist again, feeling his face flushing with shame. The weeks he'd spent in the hospital now began to surface from his hazy memory, jabbing at his already wounded pride. He wouldn't allow being taken care of like a baby even in his own home. He gathered all the strength he had left and he painfully crawled back to the bed his elbows, like a soldier through barbwire; he reached for the blankets with his only arm and pulled himself up with enormous effort. A sudden weakness clasped his body and he almost let go and fell back on the floor, but he managed to give one last thrust of his back and finally hauled himself on the bed. He collapsed on the mattress, exhausted and gasping for air as he felt a sharp pang in his chest, where the reactor was embedded. He was unable to move, even to reach the pillow.

Only then did the truth slap him in his face. 

Pretending nothing had happened had been reassuring. As long as he'd stayed in the hospital, that whole ordeal had almost been impalpable, just an unfocused mirage that, no matter how close it might seem to get, still lingered on the horizon. Pretending had been easy, had been good. He'd only had to ignore all that happened around him, including Pepper's worried eyes. He'd been pretending until then, willing or not, but he couldn't live in denial anymore: he'd lost an arm, a leg and an eye. He kept repeating that to himself ant those words, at first frightening and unquestionable, seemed to lose meaning, like a saying repeated too many times until it became a mere sequence of unintelligible sounds. His mind clammed up, rejecting the facts hidden behind that humdrum tune. He rejected them fiercely, denying them again and again. 

And while he struggled to grasp their sheer magnitude, other thoughts began to barge into his mind clouded by pain. Maybe that was his punishment for all the lives he'd destroyed over the course of his own one: how many people were left maimed, or worse, because of him? He instinctively reached for his reactor, feeling its faint buzz. That wasn't his punishment, then. He must have made more mistakes even when he thought he'd finally set his course right. Maybe he'd only convinced himself he did.

What now?

He wasn't allowed to waste his life, but how was he even supposed to live, in those conditions? Those thoughts only increased his anguish. He didn't want to give up the _one_ thing that had given meaning to his trivial existence. He didn't want to let go of his new iron image.

He lay there motionless, staring at the ceiling with the hand still on his reactor, and as the sun rose he saw the shadows stretching more and more, moving quickly like a film, projecting before his only eye all he would have to face from then on. He couldn't walk, at least not for a very long time. He couldn't work non-stop in his lab, with just one arm. He couldn't drive his beloved vintage cars. His reputation as a playboy would've become a ridiculous caricature, with that maimed and disfigured body. He couldn't even fathom wearing his armor again, flying, fighting, doing the one thing he knew in his heart to be _right_.

He closed his eyes and a rattling and exhausted sigh escaped his lips. What was the point of wasting his life like that?

 

***

 

He snapped awake from his slumber and felt in a stupor. He was so dead tired he'd fallen asleep without even noticing. He felt calmer now, or maybe just more resigned. He sat on the bed, combing his disheveled hair with his fingers as he put up his facade of iron. All had changed. But all had to keep going on as before. He was used to donning masks that didn't belong to him. He'd done that for years, for so long they'd eventually become part of him. It wouldn't have been that hard to do the same now.

He raised his gaze up, finding his own in the mirror before him. He forced himself not to look away.

The gauze on his eye was a big, white spot dappled with red. His stumps were tightly wrapped in bandages that stuck out of his t-shirt and shorts, impossible to hide. He could still feel his missing limbs, if just faintly. He bent his right leg and, like in the hospital, felt the knee joint responding, his muscle tensing up, his tendons sliding against his bones. The stump just quivered and he jolted in pain, effectively shattering that illusion. His reflection stared at him in puzzlement. He wondered if he really looked so helpless, so terribly naked. The feeble blue light filtering through his dark shirt didn't reassure him.

 _“How do I keep living like this?”_ He would have to completely rely on others, he'd become a burden... He couldn't stand that. He noticed the shivers racking his body: just the thought of it made his determination waver and cracked the masked he'd just brought himself to wear. He looked at the mirror, and all he saw was the body of a... how could he describe himself? A half-man? He felt a punch in the guts: he was always so self-confident, ever supported by his boundless ego, and now he couldn't even walk or describe himself.

He couldn't even remember how he used to look. He knew how he _should've_ looked, but he couldn't bring that image into focus. It just eluded him, ready to be forgotten. An unexpected idea struck him and he faltered. It was such a senseless one he could actually manage to embrace it with open arms; his expression darkened at that unintentional phrasing. He muttered some directions to JARVIS, who complied after some passive objections. Even _he_ realized that was not a good idea.

His reflection shifted. His twin was still returning his hopeless stare, only with his leg, arm and eye still in their place, created by a holographic projection. It hurt more than he'd expected, seeing himself so _normal_. He reached for his virtual arm, only to have his finger go through the projection, fueling his sense of loss. He sought the might to escape that form of masochism, but he didn't really wish to.

He caught a movement behind him through the mirror, and the door opened with a click. Pepper peeked out in the room, probably worried that she would wake him. She stopped on the threshold with a blank stare as she saw him shrouded by those bluish projections. “Mr. Stark?” she tentatively called.

He didn't answer and kept watching his self-destructive make-believe. Did he really want to show himself so weak and incapable of coping with his new reality? He still had time to tell JARVIS to cut the act, to say “stop”. But Pepper had already entered the room and he could see her eyes sadden through the mirror. He lowered his own, feeling at fault and aware of her disappointment. He didn't have the slightest idea of how she would react; he only hoped she would not treat him like a child in need of understanding. He couldn't bear that: she had to keep herself _her_ if he couldn't do the same.

He heard her approaching him and stopping at his side, staring at his trembling holographic limbs. He wanted to say something, to make up one of his usual witty remarks like he'd constantly been doing during his recovery, but the words got lost before he could speak them out.

“JARVIS, that's enough,” she said in his place. The projections dissolved, uncovering his stumps again. He raised his head and met her eyes, noticing how they were slightly misty. She just stood there, still silent.

“Mr. Stark just attempted at his own safety,” JARVIS blurted out of turn, though breaking that heavy silence. Pepper frowned and gave him a questioning look.

“I fell,” he muttered, regaining a semblance of self-control “I tried to get up. Didn't work out as I planned,” he added bitterly, hoping not to sound too pathetic.

“You'll need that,” she said quietly, gesturing towards something he hadn't noticed sitting beside his bed.

 _“A wheelchair?”_ A flash of vigor revived him from the catatonic state he'd slipped into. He raised his head, chin high, and darted an icy look at Pepper. “That hellish contraption?” He indignantly addressed it “I'm not sitting there, ever,” he balked, putting up that not-on-your-life look of his, paired with a dour voice that didn't belong to him. The dark thoughts of just a few minutes before had turned into a proud stubbornness that prevented him from humiliating himself to that point. Being chauffeured around without any freedom was too much.

“And just _how_ do you plan to move?” Pepper's voice stayed calm, unnaturally so. He pondered that unexpected question in all its simplicity, and yet he had to put all his inventiveness to use to find an adequate answer.

He tried to soften his way too serious tone, he put on what he hoped to be a neutral expression and cleared his throat before talking. “Well, with...” He visualized himself wearing one propeller. “With my...” Then he visualized himself painfully ramming into the ceiling headfirst. “Uh, forget it. A pair of– one crutch will be enough,” he snapped eventually.

Pepper considered him and his words for an instant, clearly doubtful about that sudden display of lightheartedness. She seemed on the verge of letting him do as he pleased, but her sense of duty came out on top. She placed the wheelchair near the bed so he could get on it, but he just demanded his crutch again, insisting he wasn't invalid yet. After a long, inconclusive quarrel, Pepper almost had to lift him bodily to make him sit on the “hellish contraption” and escort him to the bathroom.

“Mr. Stark, try to tolerate this, at least for the moment,” she tried to coax him.

“I don't want to _tolerate_ it,” he muttered back.

Pepper didn't know how to reply to that. Tony had never been the obliging type, and that was one of his many character flaws she always struggled to put up with, but she couldn't really blame him now. When they reached the bathroom, a dead cold glance from him conveyed the message that, _no_ , he didn't need her help for that too and, _no_ , he wouldn't ask nor accept it even if he did.

Pepper closed the door behind her, hoping he would manage on his own without too much collateral damage. All that situation was leaving her at a loss. She didn't know how to interact with him anymore. While in the hospital, Tony had seemed his usual snarky, mouthy, cocky self. That had initially unsettled her, but she decided not to question it further. She wasn't sure she could handle so many changes at the same time.

It was worse, way worse than when he'd come back from Afghanistan. Back then he'd at least managed to build something to live for, but now that was in pieces as well. She couldn't tell what would happen yet, but she desperately wanted to believe it wouldn't be any worse than what already had.

 

***

 

“You have some medical appointments today. Dr. Mitchell will be here soon.”

“Great, so I can spend the day being told all the things I can't do now.”

“Dr. Mitchell is highly qualified and will surely find the best course of action to...”

Tony ran his hand through his hair as he started losing the words she was speaking. What could Mitchell ever say that he didn't already know?

 _“Mr. Stark, your recovery is astonishing!”_ he mentally mocked the doctor. Sugar-coating his conditions would only anger him more than he already was. He'd come to the thought that having a reactor in his chest was the worst thing that could ever happen to him, but he'd been clearly wrong. This was worse, by far.

He'd always been aware of his over-inflated self-confidence and he'd always proudly come to terms with it – it was all grist for his mill anyway. Being reduced in that state turned the tables against him and was putting him in a tight spot, at war with his own body and mind. It was a war doomed from the start. To win, he had to accept reality, but he couldn't understand it right now. It couldn't have been otherwise, but he already knew he would cave in eventually, and follow that new law against which even Tony Stark couldn't rebel. Then again, sitting on that wheelchair, he didn't really feel like he could rebel against anything.

He looked around in frustration, feeling the walls closing on him despite the wide window overlooking the ocean. It was a windy day, judging by the palm leaves whipping the air with every restless gust, but the sky was bright and cloudless. It could've been any January morning, but it just wasn't, at least not for him. He averted his gaze from the seemingly unchanged world, realizing that it only made him feel more helpless.

Pepper was busy going through his medical records, an impressive number. He seized her distraction to peek at the mirror again, well aware of how unwise that move was.  
The room fell into darkness.

 _“What the hell?”_ He could see absolutely nothing. _“Mental blackouts? No, thanks,”_ he sighed in exasperation as he started to restlessly squirm on his seat. His physical inconveniences were more than enough and he didn't sign to get mental ones as well.

The mirror was still visible. And he was very damn sure he was still sitting in his blasted wheelchair, so how on Earth was his reflection standing? In the mirror, he was also sporting his regular sneer and he seemed to be just fine, with all the limbs attached where they belonged. Was he hallucinating? Just how many meds did they give him?

He barely had the time to bring it into focus, that his reflection raised his right arm, as to wave hello at him. He then winked at him knowingly and turned on himself, clearly putting on display the limbs which were supposed to be lopped off in his real body. Breath caught in Tony's throat as he seared that image into his brain down to every little detail. He could distinctly feel his gray matter, that had apparently been sedated until then, rebooting and setting his brains into motion. Somewhere near the reactor, he felt a hint of warmth, like sparks soaring from the embers of a dying fire.

The reflection half bowed, like a showman saying goodbye to his audience, then was swallowed by the darkness.

Tony closed his eye, as irrational excitement grew inside him in high waves. He almost leaped from his wheelchair as his mind started plunging into convoluted thoughts at a frenzied pace. Only after a while did he notice that Pepper had been shaking him as gently as possible to make him snap out of whatever unconscious limbo he'd fallen in.

“Tony? Tony, please, talk to me!”

“Pepper!” He shouted, and he almost didn't recognize his own voice breaking with emotion.

“You scared me to death!” Pepper finally lost her composure “You looked like you were in a trance and...”

“I'm fine, now listen! Listen to me, Peps!” He reached for her wrist to stop her agitated motions, blowing down any formality between them as he got carried away by his own enthusiasm.

“Tony?” She paused, baffled by that gesture. “What's up with...”

“A sheet! I need a sheet and a pencil! Can you draw? Whatever, it doesn't matter, but _hurry up_ , before I lose it!”

 _“Now, goddammit!”_ He cursed, feeling the details fading away from his memory and his formulas and calculations overlapping and reshuffling, dangerously close to losing all sense. He didn't care if that had been a stroke of genius or folly or just some schizoid side-effect from his meds. He knew what to do.

He knew what to do!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translating this chapter was a real nightmare and I'm sure it's filled with typos/mistakes that just slipped past my proofreading, so feel free to point them out if you should spot them :)
> 
> Any feedback is welcome! Don't be shy and let me know what you think! <3


	4. The Turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unenthusiastic doctor jumps on Tony's bandwagon of happiness and joy in a foolish attempt at damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that these early chapters have been originally written more than 8 years ago, thus why the technology seems so antiquated. Prosthetic nowadays has reached high levels of complexity and precision, but back then Tony's project and ideas still seemed futuristic. And of course, there was no hint about Bucky's sleek prosthetic arm in the MCU yet.  
> So yeah, lots of pseudoscience from here on. We were 14/15 and very imaginative, so don't take all the technological bullshit you're going to read too seriously: I do know it's totally unrealistic and bogus, but I didn't want to alter the story too much, given it was written in cooperation with my colleague.  
> After all, it's Marvel: cities fly, people turn into green rage monsters and Vibranium is a thing, so don't nitpick too much :P

__"Late last night  
I had a dream and it was great.  
Tell your friends  
I've got a Factory of Faith."

[Factory Of Faith – Red Hot Chili Peppers]

  
  


  
"Pepper, please listen to me!"

"You don't know what you're saying. You– you seemed in a sort of trance, so you should just wait until..."

Tony was about to raise his voice, so frustrated and exasperated at once, when the doorbell rang.

"Dr. Ian Mitchell has arrived. He's asking to talk with Miss Potts in private," JARVIS announced.

"You wait here and take it easy, okay? I'll be  _right_  back," Pepper said, already making to leave the room. "And,  _please_ , don't do anything stupid."

  
  


***

  
"Unfortunately, Miss Potts, this is not the best situation," Mitchell started off, "But as a doctor, I'm obliged to tell you everything like it is."

Pepper was attentively listening to him while trying her best to stay positive. Mitchell opened his briefcase and pulled out some folders he then handed to her. The woman gave them a quick look: she knew them by heart, having spent the last month at the hospital, therefore perfectly conscious of Tony's physical conditions.

"I'll be doing a check-up today, just some general tests, as well as making sure that the stumps and the eye are healing correctly and without complications of sorts."

She nodded stiffly, mechanically leafing through the files.

"It's possible, actually very probable, that Mr. Stark might suffer from PTSD. He's going to need psychological aid. He'll also need assistance day and night, at least during the early weeks of his recovery," he concisely summed up as he rummaged through his briefcase.

"I'll see to that myself," she promptly answered, and the doctor stopped his ruckus of papers, giving her a surprised look.

"Miss Potts, this is a demanding task; maybe you should leave it to someone who's medically more experienced and..."

"I'm well-informed about Mr. Stark's conditions," she stopped him, "And I'm also trying to acquire some basic medical knowledge so that I can be of more help, but he's now stable and will just need his medications and someone to look after him". She met Mitchell's gaze, who kept staring at her with undeniable skepticism. "I'm the only person Mr. Stark can rely on, and, more importantly, the only one he trusts". She almost felt conceited in speaking those words out loud, but at the same time, she knew how truthful they were. She didn't care about what Dr. Mitchell would think of her.

"I see..." He just said, now with a hint of sadness in noticing Pepper's tired face due to more than a sleepless night: it was clear how Stark was not the only one in pain for that tragedy.

"And it's better not to involve other 'outsiders', you know that," Pepper warily added.

"I  _do_  know," he clipped, apparently annoyed by that comment. "You can count on my strict confidence," he added right away, noticing her worried look. "I have no interest in betraying Mr. Stark's privacy, although he doesn't exactly come off as the epitome of discretion..."

"He definitely isn't," Pepper sighed. "But it's vital that we don't leak anything neither about his conditions nor about the whole  _ rest _ ," she said, aware of the pressure she was exerting on the doctor, but unable to refrain from stressing that particular point all the same.

"Believe me, you're not the first person giving me this speech and the 'others' have been a lot more threatening and less accommodating than you," Ian slightly shook his head. "I knew I should've swapped the night shift with Stephen, that day," he muttered to himself, between resignation and disbelief, as he hastily closed his briefcase.

"I can assure you will be adequately remunerated for everything that you'll..."

"Miss Potts, I don't wish to discuss my 'extra' reward right now," he stated firmly. "I'm a doctor and I'm doing my job. I don't care about the particular circumstances I'll have to operate within. We will talk about it in due time," he concluded.

Pepper was taken aback by those words, but at the same time, she was positively impressed by Mitchell's professional attitude.

"Thank you."

He just shrugged, then turned his attention once again to Tony's clinical data.

"So, here's a short recap," he started off, opening the folder and staring at it intently. "It's good that Mr. Stark decided to remain at the hospital until now, willing or not. His stumps should be healed enough to prevent any infection outside of a sterile environment," he quickly looked at a chart on one of the sheets. "His last bloodwork showed some outlier, but I'll have to discuss it directly with Mr. Stark. Professional ethics," he added, apologetically.

Pepper just frowned but didn't insist: Mitchell was already bending the rules by disclosing Tony's personal information with her and she felt guilty enough about that.

"Overall, it's a much rosier situation than I'd expect, considering the severity of his wounds and the  _circumstances_  that caused them," he said, deliberately vague. "What I can tell for sure, and that you've surely figured out, is that Mr. Stark won't be able to walk anymore, at least for a very long time. I hope that he'll avail himself of some cutting-edge prosthetics when he's fit enough. I'm talking about a minimum rest period of one year". The way he said it spoke volumes about what he thought of Tony's ability to "stay at rest" for that long. Pepper had her doubts about that too. "Concerning his other injuries, there's not much that can be done at the moment," he ruefully concluded.

Pepper just nodded stiffly. She made an effort to stop twisting her hands out of nervousness and steadied herself. "I see. Now we'll have to break the news to him," she said tentatively.

"I meant to do it, but maybe you'd rather tell him yourself, given you're the closest thing to family he has. I'll be there if you want me to, in case you need some medical advice," said Ian, looking at her in an attempt at comfort.

"I'll do it," she answered decidedly, "And I'll be glad to have you there". At that point she hesitated and quickly averted her eyes, hating her indecisiveness. "I don't know how he'll react to all this. What I'm most worried about is the way he doesn't even seem to acknowledge the gravity of his situation. He acts as nothing happened."

Mitchell clasped his hand together as if he were gathering his own words as well. "Mr. Stark's situation is extremely delicate," he then said. "He's understandably rejecting what happened, as well as its consequences. He mentioned an amnesia about the incident and this fact only strengthens the likelihood of a trauma, as I was saying before. For now, he just needs time," he added, trying to reassure her. "But I strongly recommend he seeks counseling as soon as possible".

"That won't be easy... he's always straight out refused to see a therapist," said Pepper, folding her arms.

"Always?"

"He said so even after his... his kidnapping, one year ago". It was hard thinking about those three months of absence in an already painful situation.

Mitchell's reaction gave away that he was aware of that particular event – after all, Tony's disappearance had been on the news for weeks.

"Then we'll make him reconsider his decision," he simply answered. "Even if he's not shown any sign yet, I'm keen to believe that following this last shock he might begin to suffer the after-effects of his kidnapping. PTSD, to put it simply," he came to a stop in noticing Pepper's worried look.

Convoluted and unpleasant considerations had begun to twist in her head: the suit and all that it entailed could be considered an outlet for that stress? Ian's firm but gentle voice pulled her away from those thoughts: "We don't need to take care of this right now. We should just tell him the truth."

"I don't think he'll ever accept it."

"He _  has _  to if he wants to keep on living. And he doesn't seem the kind of person who gives up that easily, after all he's been through," he finished in an encouraging tone.

Pepper smiled with a hint of sadness but let herself believe in those words. She handed the files back to Mitchell.

"Miss Potts?"

"Yes?"

"I reckon it is wiser to keep quiet about the latest developments when talking to him: adding stress upon stress at such a sensitive time could be threatening to his health."

"I agree to inform him when he'll get better. We still have a month, after all... I hope he'll have recovered in the meantime."

Ian silently nodded, but Pepper sensed that he was just as doubtful about that particular fact. He quickly inspected his medical tools in view of the examination.

"We'd better go; he'll be waiting for us," he stated, closing his briefcase with a click and following Pepper to his patient's room.

  
  


***

  
  


Pepper had as much as closed the door behind her, that Tony turned around and somehow hurtled towards his desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper from the once neat ream in the corner and found a sharpened pencil. His sound arm was hurting for the effort of pulling his wheelchair, but he started writing nonetheless, cursing under his breath for being right-handed. He hushed JARVIS when he tried to offer his help with the project and only kept jotting down his ideas more hastily. 

Faster, _faster_ , before everything faded away, before he lost hope again...

He was still writing and drawing when Pepper and the doctor entered the room, breaking the intense concentration he'd sunk into. He turned right away to face them, victoriously holding a barely readable bundle of sketches, drafts, and notes in his raised fist.

"Mr. Stark, you shouldn't even  _ think _  about getting up from bed  in your..." Mitchell started off, nearing him with sheer disbelief written all over his face.

Tony didn't even let him finish and all but hammered the papers in front of the doctor's dazed eyes, halting his moving forward: "Can this be done?!" he half-asked, half-screamed, sounding panicked.

Mitchell wobbled, squinted his eyes behind his squared glasses and gingerly took the sheets in his hands, while Pepper just stood dumbstruck beside him. He went through the papers with an intent look on his face, pushing aside his patient's unexpected high spirits. He finally was able to distinguish some sort of machine, or, at least, what looked like a machine to his eyes: he was a doctor, not an engineer. It vaguely resembled a barren tree with its roots pointed in the wrong direction. The drawing was overwritten with illegible jottings about mechanical formulas and levers, rough sketches of other incomprehensible components. On the bottom followed what looked like an accurate selection of chemical elements –  _ those _  he did recognize, at least – many of which had been crossed out, some connected with tiny arrows and others bearing a question mark. Along the sheet's lower border ran an array of partially erased formulas that kept going on the following papers, where more circuits were sketched, along with some arc reactors – and he recognized them only because he had one right in front of him, embedded in his patient's chest, or he would've mistaken them for alien trinkets, given their clumsy outline.

"What is this supposed to be?" he cautiously asked in the end, shifting his glasses.

"That's a prosthesis!" Tony answered heartily.

"A prosthesis?" Mitchell turned the sheet upside down, trying to make sense of that jumble of shapes and signs, and he could indeed identify some fingers, among what seemed to be tree branches; what had looked like roots were, in fact, countless wires and cables.

"It's a prosthetic arm," Tony quickly picked up right where he'd stopped, "And those are artificial nerves- I mean, microscopic cables that will substitute the nerves with... with some kind of conductive material, calibrated so that I won't get electrocuted, so- yeah,  _ some _  material I have _  yet _  to think of... anyway, those cables will perform the function of electrochemical-impulse nerve terminals connected to the nervous system. I don't mean to connect them directly since I'm not signin' up for a lobotomy yet, so I'd need a– a microchip of sorts linked with my heart reactor–... and that would be a problem, 'cause palladium could–... maybe I need a catalyst!" He exclaimed, halting his flood of words and tugging at his goatee while he pondered that sudden idea. "Anyway, I know how to make it, but I don't know if it'll work, but... but if it works I could fully recover my limbs back!" He talked without taking a breath, stammering as he tried to keep the pace with his own thoughts already busy devising on how to put his words into actions.

The impression he made on his beholders wasn't so flattering as he'd planned, that was clear by the way they exchanged a puzzled look, probably thinking he was having a case of  _ delirium tremens _  due to the cut on his meds. He made to start talking again, but the doctor stopped him, bewildered:

"Mr. Stark, please speak in  _ my _ _ own _  language! I'm a doctor, not an engineer!" Ian spoke his previous consideration out loud, struggling to follow his patient's rambling. He seemed to understand the reference to the nervous system, but he was clearly doubtful about the whole resto; after all, he realized he was babbling about a nonexistent technology.

"Tony, please," Pepper weary voice finally stepped in; she looked at him with and seemed convinced he was delirious.

"No, you _  have to _  hear me out!" He boomed.

Both Ian and Pepper fell silent, grasping the dire urge in his voice, and waited for him to go on.

"I know I sound crazy, and maybe I am," he admitted, wrestling with his own tongue to get those words out, "But I've spent weeks vegging out in a hospital thinking I wouldn't stand a chance. Now I feel I've found a way out. This is my _  only _  chance now and I at least have to  _ try _  to carry through with it." He came to a halt and stared at Pepper right in the eye. "I can't be on a wheelchair for the rest of my life. You know I  _ can't _ ," he said, almost begging her, hoping she would remember that day six months before, when he'd asked her to stand by his side for the  _ one _  right thing he'd done in his whole life.

"I know," she answered, holding his gaze, and that was all he needed to feel his beliefs strengthen again.

Ian had kept a respectful silence, sensing the seriousness in that exchange he only vaguely understood.

"So, is it possible?" Tony sighed, addressing him again and pointing at the projects in his hands. He didn't even remotely consider the possibility that his idea could be unfeasible. He'd just put onto paper what had felt like an epiphany, cropped up from some faraway recess of his subconscious. But there could be so many complications he could do nothing about. After all, as opposed to Ian, he wasn't a doctor. He was a genius, but he wasn't so anatomy-savvy: just the bare essentials to adapt the suit to his needs and to patch himself up.

_ "The suit..." _  The problem made its appearance in his mind, regardless of how much effort he'd spent to keep it at bay: how. exactly, was he supposed to resume his role as a "superhero"? Or, better yet, as a "Consultant"? He shunned the thought: one thing at a time. He had to get back to normal before he could get to "super". Not too long before he would've probably tackled both problems at the same time, but right now he couldn't afford to make mistakes because he was in a rush.

Mitchell looked again at what to his own eyes looked like a simple doodle on a crumpled piece of paper, and that could become a reason for living for the man before him. He teetered before he answered: "Give me something more precise to work with, and I'll be able to express a medical opinion."

"But do you think it could be possible?" Tony asked again: he craved for a straight answer because deluding himself in the situation he was in would've been devastating.

Ian sighed, neatly folded the sheet and slipped it in his jacket's pocket, then crossed his arms as if he was preparing to explain something very complex to a dense child. "Theoretically, it could be feasible," he said, making Tony hold his breath as he waited for more. "As regards its application... I have to say I don't have the slightest idea. Similar prostheses have been devised since years now, but only a very limited number has been realized, mostly for the enormous cost in both human and economic terms due to the various tests and materials that–..."

"The cost isn't an issue. And I'll be the guinea pig, I'm used to it by now." He nonchalantly flicked his reactor. "And I have a financial empire which... Pepper, I still have a financial empire, right?" He flinched, suddenly turning to her.

"Fortunately for all of us, you do. And it would also be doing great if..." She got an icy look from Ian, and Pepper's eyes darted in his direction too. "... if its owner went back to take care of it," she quickly finished.

Tony scowled at them for a few instants. "Very well. There's something I'm not supposed to know about, right?  _ Of course _ , there is," he answered right away, halting Pepper's reply with a simple gesture of his hand. "I don't care, at least not for now. Doc, you were going about the existing prostheses, weren't you?"

"Right. Materials are the main problem: carbon or glass fiber are suitable for fixed implants, which can be used for limbs amputated below the joints, but in your case..."

"Elbow and knee are gone, I figured that much," Tony flatly completed, sensing an odd detachment from his own body as he was talking about it.

"As far as upper limbs go, only theoretical prostheses have been designed. If a prosthesis merely has to support your body weight, science can come up with something. If we're talking about hands, fingers and autonomous mobility, well, that's a different story. They've come up with some rudimentary device that allows amputees to perform basic tasks and everyday actions, but there's been no real progress in developing a prosthesis directly connected to human nerves, let alone being able to respond promptly and with precision to their impulses. Prostheses are an inanimate extension of your limbs, not their inherent part," the doctor finally stated.

"So... 'normal' prostheses are a no go for me," Tony mumbled with a frown.

"Unfortunately so. You're not the first one to think of artificial nerves, but there's no trace of an apt material to replace them. And even if there was, it would entail the limbs' full recreation; joints, tendons, muscles, cartilage and so on included. It's not that easy a task," he warned him.

"I've built a suit interfacing and responding to my own movements: how hard can a leg or an arm be?" Tony distractedly blurted out.

Ian sighed and exchanged a look with Pepper: she was right about Stark and discretion being on different planes of existence. He'd basically just admitted willy-nilly to be the ironclad superhero the whole world had been talking about over the last six months. The woman produced a single, discreet nod: _not now_. Tony's secret identity was the last of their problems. 

Ian gathered his thoughts, trying to elaborate a coherent answer from the scarce information he knew about the suit: it had appeared in war zones on several occasions, putting an end to major armed conflicts. Surprisingly, there were no videos of said confrontation, excluding the grainy ones from the recent, tragic clash at Stark Industries. He ran a hand through his grey hair, putting the few pieces he had together. "Truth be told, I have no clue about robotics..." he sighed, "And I know nothing certain about your suit, except that it flies and fires laser beams, so..."

"They're propellers," Tony absent-mindedly corrected him, before he finally realized what they were talking about. "Crap, wait a sec, you're not even supposed to..." he trailed off and faced Pepper, who just scowled at him.

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

Tony grunted awkwardly and shifted on his wheelchair. "I, uh, got carried away. Doc, don't break the news just yet, will ya?" He tried to downplay it, now slightly nervous about his identity being outed.

Ian just shook his head and went on pretending nothing had happened.  "Whatever... from what I've been able to determine, and that's not much, you don't directly move the suit, but it just supports your movements... am I right?"

"Yeah, sorta. It's a tad more complicated than that," Tony allowed, subtly irritated by the doctor's oversimplification.

"I take your word for it. Anyway, we're talking about an external unit: the suit receives your motor impulses and moves accordingly. How do you plan on connecting and powering something that's part of your own body?" He asked with a hint of disbelief.

Tony weighed up the question, trying to set his brains to work. He realized how difficult it would be to connect the artificial nerves to the severed ones – given there was a material that could replace them – and to make them respond to his will. "I can use an arc reactor as a power source," he slowly reasoned, instinctively reaching to his chest to tap on the metal cylinder. It seemed almost obvious to entrust the technology that had saved his life with the task of putting it back together. Ian's eyes, on the contrary, conveyed just how much he disdained what he regarded as an attempt on his health. And maybe he wasn't that wrong either.

"It won't be that hard, after all, I've built this baby's prototype with a bunch of scraps. I'd never thought about upgrading it since it works fine just as it is. It won't take me long to think out a miniaturized version. You've seen the projects," he cut it short and pointed at the pocket holding the papers.

"Mr. Stark, you'll probably be able to design and plan whatever you wish to, but don't forget about the practical part. An extensive surgery will be necessary, even on a microscopic level."

"You're a neurosurgeon and you operated me, so if I were to hand you a working prototype, complete with all the needed info and data..."

"Let's keep our feet on the ground," he clipped, clearly unsettled by that untimely request.

"I would if I could," he lightly dropped that line, raising his remaining foot.

Ian cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably as he realized his faux pas. "I might be able to operate you in the future, but it depends on how your preposterous projects will work out in the end," he compensated, still warily.

Tony didn't feel those words as a burden: at least, this was a responsibility that only weighted on his shoulders, as opposed to his weapon mongering days.

"Miss Potts, what do you think?" He asked, barely looking at her. She hesitated, torn between her own thoughts, but he smiled in noticing her expression: he knew her only too well and he was now sure she would side with him.

"I think that's pure madness, but that's exactly why it could work," she produced a thin smile, the first wholehearted one he'd seen since his recovery, and he felt his whole body soar at the sight. "Just promise me you won't force me to perform any other unconventional open-heart surgery..." she mockingly added.

Tony snickered at the thought of the last arc reactor's replacement. Ian questioningly raised his eyebrows but didn't inquire any further. "Very well, now that this extensive and unexpected chit-chat of ours is over, I'll still have to check you up," he said, as he placed the stethoscope in his ears.

Pepper lightly squeezed Tony's sound shoulder, but he barely noticed the gesture, too busy running over formulas and taking mental notes about his new, revitalizing project.

There was a way out. He just had to create it with his own hands.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you survived the flood of technical babble. The next chapters will still partly focus on the prostheses and their making process, but they will also have a lot more human interactions, especially between Pepper and Tony.
> 
> I thank you all for the kudos, the bookmarks and the kind comments and sorry for the late update: uni's been a bitch lately and translating takes a huge amount of time I couldn't afford until now. I hope to make up for it with the next chapter :)


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